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COPYRIGHT DEPOSrc 



Echoes From the Forest 



BY 



H. W. BUGBEE 




BOSTON 
RICHARD G. BADGER 

The Gorham Press 
1905 



Copyright 1904 by H. W. BUgbee 
All Rights Reserved 



\ 



LIBRARY of CONGRESS 
Two Copies Heceivna 

DEC 22 1904 

Oopyriifiit tntry 

Cl^S A. XXc. No; 
COPY B. 



Printed at 

THE GORHAM PRESS 

Boston, U. S. A. 



TO HER WHO DREAMED 
FOR ME FAR BETTER THAN 
I SING 



ECHOES FROM THE FOREST 



CONTENTS 

Page 

Mid Classic Ruin 9 

Gloomy Days lO 

Bluebirds U 

The Forest Stream 1 1 

Hemlocks in Winter 13 

Indian Summer 15 

Mystery 16 

Trending Godward 17 

Sunset Phantasy 18 

Intimations of Spring 19 

Class Ode 20 

The Forest Giant 21 

Connecticut River 22 

Music in the Cathedral 23 

Compensation 24 

Ideals of Youth 25 

The Long March 29 

The Boer Women's Despair 31 

The Awakening 32 

The President at Court Square 33 

Brave Greece 36 

Invulnerability 38 

The Pine 39 

The Equinoctial 39 

Orpheus's Music in Hades 40 

7 



CONTENTS 

Page 

The Cold Moon's Service 41 

The Old and The New 42 

The Mystery of Life 44 

Spring's Finished Work 46 

The Blue Violet 47 

Visitation 47 

New England 48 

Sinistra 49 

Lines on the Death of Rev. James Tufts 50 

Dream Life 51 

The Venetian's Grief 52 

The King 53 

Centum Anni 55 

The Voice of Fate 60 

The Forest Spirit 62 

Autumn 64 

The Lesson 65 

By Fire-light 66 

The Rivers 67 

Immortal Days 69 



*MID CLASSIC RUIN 

The music of Anacreon song 
Wafts softly down the galleries of time; 

There comes to haunt my memory long 

The vision of a fair-robed throng 
Who beckon vaguely to a sunnier clime. 

From what far halcyon shores appear 

These shapes of beauty? What long silent past 

Whispers such passion in my ear 
Of undreamt glory, till a fear 

Steals o'er me that such visions may not last? 

Down purple distances retreat 
The forms that will not long communion hold 

With mortal sense, — their airy feet 

Move to a rhythm none repeat 
Save those whose names are through the centuries 
told. 

Afar there dies so sweet a strain 
That I grow faint with ecstacy, which brings, 

Ere long, a sense of growing pain. 

And now I wander down a lane 
Of countless columns, where no music rings. 

My path with ruined art is strewn; 
Here lies a hero prostrate, there a god. 

And far above a pitying moon 

, Flees toward the clouds which hide it soon — 
I tread alone where ruthless Time has trod. 



GLOOMY DAYS 

These are the gloomy days of darksome skies, 
Which from the longing eyes 
That weep for beauty dead 
Shut the kind light ; and all the birds have fled. 
Music, to light and beauty ever w^ed. 
With them has ceased to charm ; 
Man vainly seeks for solace sw^eet from Nature's 
balm. 

The trees in sadness a weird chorus chant. 
And to the rays that slant 
From the far sun they show 
Branches all leafless from whose twigs the glow 
Of color long has died, nor might one know 
That aught of life were there ; 
Sadly he views their shivering boughs and branches 
bare. 

Yet, in the chilling air that boisterous blows, 

A heaven-born current flows. 

Within the frozen ground. 

Deeply doth Nature work, — almost the sound 

Of mighty forces, underneath, around, 

Acquaints the listening ear 

That verdant life shall soon again on earth appear. 

And thus, when clouds within the human sky 
Man's radiant plans defy; 
When the stern winter kills 
His blossoming hopes and his glad passion stills; 
Then, though with pain his inmost being thrills. 
In him shall God begin 

His work, — for effort fresh new-strengthening him 
within. 



lO 



BLUEBIRDS 

Glance of blue in the glowing air, 
Wings that gleam and a song note rare, — 
These are the dream-gifts, ever new, 
That charm the soul if the heart be true. 

Over the mountains the veil is sweet 
That shrouds but faintly her form complete — 
These are the heralds, blithe, of spring 
That bear her tidings on joyous wing. 

THE FOREST STREAM 

The fairest scenes are ever those that lie 

Deep hid within the lap of Nature; there, 

Unsought by careless eyes and unrevealed 

To such, abides her rarest loveliness. 

The joyous mood, the spirits light and gay. 

Shall miss, perchance, or fail to all imbibe 

The something that inevitably breathes 

In such a spot ; but when in pensive thought 

Thy mind is cast, or when, in question plunged, 

Thy spirit wrestles with some baffling doubt. 

Then Nature shall unto thy quickened sense 

Speak her serenest language; tenderly, 

And with caressing whispers, lure thee on. 

Till in her secret shrines thou read'st her heart 

And see'st the boundless love that rules the world. 

Come where, amid the sylvan shades, the brook 
Leaps down in music o'er the moss-clad stones, — 
Far through the wood, in murmuring cadences. 
Thine ear shall catch the silvery strain, and straight 
Thy steps shall quicken, and with lightened heart 
Thou shalt press on, unmindful, midst these sounds^ 
Of strife, or discord, or the world's unrest. 

II 



Thrust back the leaves through which a radiant 

glimpse 
Of rippling waters caught thy watchful glance ; 
Before thee what a scene ! Now clothed in light, 
Now gliding into shadow, dancing on 
With many a whirl and plash, the brook gleams 

down 
Along its beauteous course. The mossy rocks, 
Among the darker eddies thickly strewed, 
Afford the fancy many a portal dim 
To fair, enchanted regions, vaguely guessed, 
Like those where Sella roamed. The winding banks. 
The shadowy verdure lines; far o'er the stream 
The eager branches reach, high over-arched. 
Or dipping 'neath the surface, and the leaves 
From time to time mysteriously stir, 
As though the all-pervading melody 
That rises from the waters' ceaseless tide 
Had breathed among their shades some finer note, 
To which they thrill with nameless ecstacy. 

Here linger on until, too deep for words. 

Thy soul has quafiEed of that perennial spring; 

Till in thy heart a voice of larger hope 

Has answered to the brook's undying song. 

Which ere thou hadst a being rose the same, 

And, still unchanged, shall murmur down the yea;rs 

That on the earth behold thy form no more. 

And in that future day shall others come. 

Like thee, in soul-perplexity, and gaze 

Upon these waters and be comforted. 



12 



HEMLOCKS IN WINTER 

Far looms the long, majestic forest aisle 

And awes the intruder; softly must he tread, 

As one that looks on hidden mysteries. 

Here silence reigns and, from the towering trees, 

A spell of grandeur falls upon the soul. 

Beneath a lofty canopy of boughs 

Ne'er yielded unto winter, deep there lies 

Upon the woodland floor, out-stretching wide, 

A white expanse of virgin snow, untrod. 

And through the undying green that mounts away, 

Snow-sprinkled here and there, toward yonder sky, 

An azure heaven smiles inscrutably 

Upon the unstained purity beneath. 

A breath of fragrant coolness calmly stirs 

Among the tree-trunks, and a whisper soft 

Of mystic import, trembles on the air. 

But what strange sense of loneliness is this 

That steals upon one as his wandering gaze. 

The pillared aisles traversing, vainly seeks. 

For aught of wintry barrenness and sense 

Of dreary lack that Spring shall all repay? 

Instead, upon the awe-struck soul there palls 

A cold perfection, from these changeless trees. 

A cynic smile seems to deride the heart. 

The sunlight's self, down-sifting through their 

boughs. 
Falls chill amid their shadows on the snow. 
The intruder restless grows and ill at ease; 
He is no part of all this perfectness. 
He comes and leaves his footprints, but he adds 
No efl^uence of his being to the scene. 
The trees stoop not in sympathy to him, 
Nor aught that breathes consoles his solitude. 



13 



Here once he came — 'twas summer — and the mold 
Was cool and tempting 'neath his feet, and birds 
Made sweetest music, and the voice of streams 
Was melody about him, and a flower 
Of rarest beauty here and there upsprung 
Beside some giant trunk, near which there welled 
A cooling spring that mirrored this fair scene. 
Above, these giant branches were o'erspread 
And seemed to guard the fairyland beneath. 
Reposing on a mossy couch he lay, 
And gazed about him; all enchanted was. 
And he, the dreamer: fair the visions were 
Among the tree-trunks, and he cried for joy 
And touched one mighty stem, and looking round. 
Called the trees friends and seemed their smile to 
see. 

But ah, how changed! how changed Is now the 

scene ! 
He turns with tears and leaves the desolate grove; 
At last he knows their hearts — he knows them 

now — 
These cold, cold trees that once he called his friends; 
Untrained to sympathy, untouched by love. 
Chilled by their own sad greatness, proud they 

stand, 
Unmoved, unmovable, and stern as death. 

The dreamer leaves them sadly, now he greets 
With tenderness, appreciation new. 
The trees that in their need cry out for Spring. 
How frank their longing after love and God ! 
They, too, are changed for him — the homely birch, 
The maple and the sturdy oak — all changed, 
And as he gazes on them tenderly 



14 



And sees a symbol of his loneliness, 
His cry for love, his reaching after God, 
He thanks his Maker for the winter time, 
That separates us from the alluring dream 
And teaches us that naught is good but Truth. 

INDIAN SUMMER 

Shorn of their summer beauty stand the trees, 
And o'er the hills stern winter stalks apace, 

Till the last hue of life and verdure flees, 

Long vanished from the freezing meadow's face. 

The chilling breezes long have swept the plain, 
The last leaf-voyagers to earth have flown. 

And wintry Death, whose first insidious gain 
Was flattery sweet, now sounds his triumph tone. 

All hope seemed lost, — when lo ! a morning broke 
Whose tempered airs were balm to sorrowing 
hearts ; 

From all the horizon round old earth bespoke 
Once more her ancient faith, that still imparts 

A joy unspeakable to cultured man — 

The faith that life shall conquer every field 

Where his brave forces fight, and through the span 
Of days, years, centuries, not once shall yield ! 

The loud, hoarse boast of winter swift denied, — 
The brave and beautiful ne'er braggarts are — 

Once more with glad, clear laugh of joyous pride 
The vales and mountains hail the morning star. 

The sun, still lingering behind the hills. 

Already flashed through heaven his answering 

joy; 



15 



And, climbing now to view, with radiance fills 
The empurpled valleys where the mists deploy. 

And while the day wears on in slow delight 
Of cool yet wondrous sweet similitude 

Of summer hours, strange altered, still the light 
Is with a dreamy, spring-like air imbued. 

That wondrous haze that broods the horizon o'er — • 
What lies beyond? Surely not valleys mere 

Where trade is plied, — something not guessed be- 
fore 
I rather deem, and forms I may revere. 

And ah, what lies beyond those other mists 
Of doubts and questionings that seldom lift 

Quite from our minds ? For me no fear exists ; 
Still through the darkest clouds heaven's glories 
rift! 

MYSTERY 

In calm sublimity of conscious power 
The ocean merges in the distant sky. 

And far above, veiled by a silvery shower 

Of moonbeams, gleam the lights that never die. 

Beside the glistening beach a single bud, 

A violet, has opened to the Spring 
And silently bathes in the shining flood. 

For praise at such an hour too small a thing. 

Yet has the mighty deep its certain bound. 
And even that vast firmament on high, 

Unfathomed space, the mind of man may sound. 
And read the truth in its immensity. 

i6 



But who from that frail blossom can reveal 
The secret of the something which it hides? 

Th' abyss of space that secret may not steal, 
Nor ocean hold a greater in its tides. 

TRENDING GODWARD 

Without, the storm drives ceaselessly the snow 
Through all the valleys, filling earth's cold lap 
With chilly whiteness. Far beyond the line 
The whirling legions of the sky have drawn 
To cheat the vision of its distances. 
The well-known mountains wrestle now alone 
With raging storm-gusts. Up the steeps of air 
I gaze and grow bewildered. Soon the mind 
Seems vaguely reeling 'neath that torrent still 
Of countless snowflakes earthward journeying. 
All things seem falling. Falling is the sky, 
The dim-lined houses and the swaying trees 
Sink strangely round me, whilst anon I fall. 

A vagrant fancy, — yet a parable 

It speaks of all the universe ; the earth. 

Her sister planets with their satellites 

Fall ever sunward, yet, fore'er restrained. 

In silence still they whirl their nameless years. 

The sun itself falls through the deeps of space 

To some far goal, unguessed, unfathomable 

To learning's gaze as that of farthest stars. 

And we, amid the awful galaxy 
Of falling worlds and suns, plod stupidly 
Along our little paths of hates and loves ; 
Our blinding passions, fears, and sympathies 
Weaving their fleeting clouds around our heads 
And shutting out our awesome destiny. 



17 



We, too, our orbits have, ne'er plotted yet 
By shrewd astronomer, vaingloriously ; 
Perchance but fettered for a space of days 
Unto this little earth-ship of the heavens. 
We are not bound, O heart! all hopelessly 
To moldering creeds, to ancient tottering gods 
Her hills have fostered. Davi^n sublimer things! 
Upon us break more awful lights than those 
By science charted. Strong religions die, — 
Religion lives, and grander, more divine 
Than ever in the dogma-ridden past, 
She taketh up, within all earnest hearts, 
Her beauteous kingdom. 

Still the question lives — 
With growing awe we ask it through the years: 
Whither and why? Ah, doubt not we shall know 
In Time's great fulness. Courage ! front the dawn ! 
These awful spheres tread lesser paths than we ; 
We fade, we pass, we fall forevermore 
Into the arms of God ! From him we came ; 
To him again return, proclaimed sons. 
Refined from dross, by the long ages purged 
Unto the likeness of his holiness, — 
Co-sharers in his dread divinity. 



SUNSET PHANTASY 

Cloud bars of crimson strewn athwart the west, 
A pictured river, and strange altered hills! 
The flippant breeze a hush of wonder stills. 
Though tree-tops quiver in a vague unrest. 
A purple darkness steals upon the scene; 
And gloomy shadows o'er the waters spread : 
There lingers in the sky a darkening red ; 
A cloud bank, mystic outlined, looms between. 



i8 



And, visible within its strange dark mass, 
Some phantom spires stand dimly forth to show- 
That here a city stood till fairy hosts, 
Dusk-venturesome, stole up the twilight pass 
And changed its semblance, in the afterglow 
Of sunset, as the day seeks Hesper's coasts. 

INTIMATIONS OF SPRING 

Time naught denies; 

And earth, besieged by winter long. 

Hears, as of some remembered song. 

Harmonies sweet that rise 

From all her hills and hidden nestling vales. 

For northward, now, the returning sun prevails. 

And subtle sounds are in the quivering air, 

That the quick ear divines ; and everywhere 

Life wakens with a thrill and hastes to show 

The potency of the unending flow. 

From his vast source, of all the streams 

That from remotest years have poured abroad 

O'er earth, in gracious form, the love of God, 

Which thus more tangible seems. 

And what if far and wide, the landscape o'er. 

On all the fields and hills, the snow lies deep? 

At best, it is but one poor victory more 

For tyrannous old winter. Morning sleep 

It serves, perchance, to give 

To wakening things; 

But. spring calls through the night to rise and live. 

No longer aping death. On eager wings, 

Poleward the songbird comes nor dreads the cold. 

Not less adventurous, the myriad host 

Of hardy buds and bold. 

Now swelling on the boughs of trees where most 

Winter maintained his boast 

19 



Of humbling unto grief the manifold 

And beauteous forms of life. 

Armed for the strife 

With still embittered winds, they sally forth, 

The challenge of the North, 

Not fearing in their pride; 

Protesting with new joy 

The victory which never is more sure 

Than in the eager sprout, brave to endure, 

Before the half alloy 

Of settled peace comes to abide. 

A gentle warmth is in the air that breathes 

Of rarest days, and even to the snow 

A kind of tender radiance bequeaths 

That seems to speak of life that hides below. 

E'en now, the shapes of trees, 

Softened in outline, dot the distant leas 

Or climb the nearest slopes where visible show 

The fair new buds, and ever5^where they throw 

Shadows more mazy at their feet, 

And gayly mock as winter's hosts retreat. 

CLASS ODE 

[Of the class of '98 at Monson Academy] 

Revolving years the day have brought 
Of separation, — yet our thought, 
As roots In native soil are fast. 
Still clings to memories of the past. 

Now dawns new life, but severed ways 
Sadden our dreams of future days; 
And though the paths lead mountain-high, 
This grief-cloud dims their azure sky. 



20 



To others we shall leave our place ; 
Soon Time's cold finger shall efface 
Our fairest traces, and the spot 
We loved so well shall know us not. 

Oh, not to vine and stone we leave 
Our lasting token — these deceive! 
They speak the crowd, but in our hearts 
Abides our witness, nor departs. 

This past shall all our future mold. 
Our lives shall feel, as they unfold, 
Its subtle influence, and shall be 
Far better for its sympathy. 

No words shall e'er surpass our deeds! 
The world our action ever needs. 
Closed doors swing wide — may noble strife 
Crown all our days of future life! 

Farewell these halls! and longer ring 
With memories than with words we sing ; 
And far into the world extend 
The deeds we do, the aid ye lend. 



THE FOREST GIANT 

What spirit is this that thus so suddenly 

Has dwarfed the trees that erstwhile seemed so 
tall? 
Through the vast ranks, down the dim distance — 
see! 
A wave of shrinking seems to speed o'er all. 



21 



How resolutely grand were they — but now, 

In all his majesty, here stands at last 
The captain — clouds might rest upon that brow 

That so inscrutably defies the blast. 

How awesome is the cavalcade of years 

That, generations long, on him have gazed; 

Ever, as they sweep on, with growing fears 
That here a head unconquerable is raised ! 

How small is man, with all his lordly boasts, 
When here he stands — his littleness so real! 

He seeks so soon the undiscovered coasts, 
While centuries upon this monarch steal. 

Above the mighty wood his eye is clear, 

He marshals all the tribes to his command; 
And when their boughs wax old and death is near, 
In all his majesty he still shall stand! 

CONNECTICUT RIVER 

Onward it flows, with lapse of waters slow, 
As is the march of the long years whose tread. 
Marked by the centuries, yet leaves no trace 
Upon that surface which the passing wind 
May furrow. Ever on it rolls, and pours 
Its ceaseless stream into the ocean depths. 

And has the deep mysterious sea engulfed 

In its dark bosom all the memories 

Of scenes enacted on the changeful banks 

Of the unchanging river? Or, perchance. 

At times, when night has lowered its darkest clouds 

Upon the earth, do towering forests loom 

Again unbroken, mile on mile, and shapes. 



22 



Dark skinned and lithe, steal out and look once 

more 
Upon the river erst-beloved so well? 

How strange that those slow waters hasten not 
And ever faster hasten with the years 
That snatch, still as they come, some natural charm 
From those fair banks, and add of hideousness 
Of man's invention some new tithe! How strange 
They hasten not to sink them in the sea! 

MUSIC IN THE CATHEDRAL 

Through the dim-lighted old cathedral steals 
A quivering wave of scarce-heard music, felt 
Along the heart-strings, ere the listening ear 
Has gathered slowly, from the seeming hush. 
The weird low notes that tremble on the brink 
Of silence. Gradually they swell, till now 
The air, from floor to roof, throbs soft and deep 
With strange mysterious harmonies that seem 
The emanations, from some giant heart, 
Of strong, repressed, but unconcealable 
Emotion. Mounting on, they lift the soul 
Far out above the sense of present things, 
That lie so near in the great sordid world 
Beyond these sheltering walls — a world so real. 
So tangible, yet now so lapsed from mind. 

All thoughts material are fading fast; 

And fading, fading, now etherialized, 

Remains alone, of all things known to sense, 

This grand old pile beneath whose sculptured dome 

Forms heavenly now deign to congregate, — 

Swell now the notes in sudden outburst ! Swift, 
And far, and farther, infinitely free, 

23 



Upsoar the wondrous strains. Freed now at last, 
Unfettered from the final chain, the soul 
Leaps upward with the glory. Something dawns — 
A splendor in the empyreal space ne'er guessed 
Till now — and now it fades! 

Down sinking swift. 
The trembling spirit, startled back to earth. 
Yet thinking still in heaven, feels a strain 
Of sadness in the notes that, hushed to prayer. 
Pour out their chastened soul to that far hight 
That e'er is lost, e'er striven for, and bends 
In pitying benediction still to men. 

Mount for one moment now, again, the strains. 
And cease. The silence quivers still, a space. 
With the departed music; and, above, 
The dim and kindly arching dome looks down 
And sheds a blessing on the worshiper. 

COMPENSATION 

The sun nor silver moon alone bestow 

Their showers of radiance on a grateful earth, — 

The drear, lead waste of clouds has given birth. 

In its unchiselled bosom, to the snow. 

More tangible than light from distant spheres, 

A glistening garment clothes the shivering trees. 

Till springlike bloom the wondering dr>^ad sees 

On erst bare branches, emblems of her fears. 

And grief has wrought its miracle of peace 

Within the heart that knew unquiet joy. 

But no high calm until, through sharpest pain. 

It found at last ineffable surcease 

From bitter strife. Henceforth, without alloy. 

Faith's promptings o'er its varied passions reign. 



24 



IDEALS OF YOUTH 

Around the mind, like heavenly atmosphere, 
Broods the mysterious power that links for aye 
The thought with that Divinity whose ways 
Are past its finding, but whose presence is, 
To the clear mind of faith, ne'er quite concealed 
Nor doubted. 

There are days, hazy with mists 
Of dreamy thought, but radiant with the skies 
Of youth's elysium, when methinks I feel 
The flood sweep over me of long denied 
But ne'er forgotten glories — sunset seas 
Of molten gold and crimson unforseen 
That once burst round my startled vision, when 
To ideal realms first wakened I went forth 
And breathed in heaven with the common airs. 
Never again shall dawn as on those days 
In rare and pristine splendor dawned the world 
Of hope. Ideas that now within the mind 
Are cherished, then were clothed in substance. Earth, 
By them deep-permeated, was a land 
Enchanted — heaven less fair — and all the skies 
Bore out my ships of fancy, that to me 
Were then more real and of a larger worth 
Than all the merchantmen of earthly seas. 
For lo, my heart loved their strange airy crew — 
The thoughts that surged within me and sped forth 
I trusted yet to change the world. I saw 
Just o'er the brink of sense the Arcadian isles 
Of Poesy, from whose shores I fondly hoped 
For swift and proud return of my frail craft 
All freighted down with balm for earth's old 

wounds. 
For unto me a mighty voice had called 
And life in all its mystery lay ope 
Before me, and my quickening soul, untamed 

25 



And unafraid, not knowing limit, leaped 
To meet the call, to solve the mystery. 

Those were the days of aspirations strange 

And vaguely broad, ere yet man's ancient doubts 

And deep experienced limitations shamed 

Or narrowed them. No project seemed too vast, 

No cause too fanciful. Around all things 

Dream-tinted mists of fancy gathered fast. 

Hiding their imperfections and my own. 

Oft I have gazed spell-wrapt o'er summer fields, 

Green with the year's fulfilment, far away 

To purple-vestured mountains vague as cloud; 

Past lowlands wide of ripening maize where curved 

The mighty river that, extending on. 

Narrowed its stream till like a silver thread 

It vanished in the distance — sunset hues 

Streamed from the sinking Titan till the sky. 

Bathed in ineffable splendor, seemed to melt 

Within its own almost too visible dream 

All paler visions of the untried mind. 

Yet e'en this larger glory was my own, 

And day had just lit up a grander fire 

Than e'er had beamed on mortal — thus ran on 

My self-enamored thought ; and all this scene — 

This lordly river and these haloed hills — 

Could ne'er, I dreamed, have been so fair as now, 

Or thus to ideal musings have inspired. 

One spot there was — one memory-cherished spot — 

Almost I wonder now if it were real, 

If upon earth indeed it were embowered 

By hills material as all are now 

That stem my vision. Scarcely can I feel 

That even in my thought's securest shrine 

I grasp the fulness of its beauty now. 



26 



But sometimes on the horizon of the mind 

It seems to lie — that well nigh sacred scene — 

Nay, sacred as no other — beckoning still, 

And luring me beyond the casual view 

Of present harshness, till in softer airs 

I breathe again the ethereal freedom. Lo! 

The scenes of old remain, but we are changed. 

They lie about us daily; constantly 

We view the things that once were radiant 

With magic wonder, but we find no more 

The rare enchantment; only glimpses come, 

At intervals, of that which once was ours. 

And life perchance grows harsh, and joys depart. 

But from the gloom and bitterness we turn 

To Him whose watchful care and infinite love 

Are over all. Then happy, purged at last 

From selfish purposes and foolish pride. 

We read, though with a dim perception still, 

Our destined sphere. 

O God, the earth is thine! 
Though man may claim its fields and stalwart hills 
And rear his haughty banners to the light 
Where thou hast most indelibly engraved 
Thy name — still, as when through creation's morn 
The strange voice of the new-swung world arose 
To thy white throne and hailed thee Lord of heaven, 
From all its age-carved mountains and rich plains 
It raises now, as then, its morning cry 
And evening whisper of true fealty. 
All earth is thine. The seasons as they pass, 
The ages as they roll, bring from the deep 
Unfathomed store of time no worship new; 
One ancient creed suflfices all the years 
That have been or shall rise to being. God, 
His goodness and unalterable love: 
These words are eloquent of all desire 
And pregnant of all meaning for all time. 
27 



Through many a varied clime his infinite care 
Age-long has wrought, in forms innumerable, 
The changing, manifold, ineffable 
Expression of his never-changing love. 
Turn we our hearts to Nature — there shall be 
A solace and a calm for every grief; 
A ceaseless inspiration. 

But there comes 
From every sun-kissed hill and hidden dell, 
From every sky and all the meadow lands. 
From song of bird and murmur of the brook 
That threads the sylvan solitude, — one voice: 
The beauty that thou seest here revealed 
Is ours by service. May the lesson sink 
Deep in our human hearts ; and there shall rise 
A sweetness in the soul that shall repay 
The loss of all the careless, buoyant joy 
That may on earth return to us no more. 
Then beauteous Nature unto us shall be 
The fitting semblance of our inner selves. 
The visible earnest to the intellect 
Of that which animates and fills the soul. 
And on the earth shall be no poorest spot. 
Of outward beauty howsoe'er devoid. 
Through which, like some disseminating smile 
That flashes o'er a face of ugly mold 
Revealing an unguessed sublimity 
And purity within, no ray shall break 
Of the all-pervading light and deity. 
The joy of service and the love of truth — 
These are the things that elevate the soul, 
These are the lights that tell of heaven and God 
Happy the man that finds them graven deep 
Upon the fire and passion of his youth. 



28 



THE LONG MARCH 

I hear the sound as of a marching host 

That halting not moves forward all the day, 

Yet from the lines no hurrying horsemen post 
With orders that bespeak the coming fray. 

A solemn march, as of a veteran force 

Who bear the scars of many a bloody fight, 

And, constant keeping on their weary course, 
Behold the coming of reposeful night. 

Whither, 'mid gathering shadows, onward moves 
This army whose long march seems ne'er to cease ? 

The homing bird from clime to clime that roves 
Shall sooner find his journey's end in peace. 

It w^as not always thus, — these men have seen, 
In bygone days, full many a march and long, 

But, ere it ended, heard the shell's fierce scream 
Proclaim the need of bravest sinews strong. 

Full many a march has ended where the smoke 
Hid deeds of valor making men like gods, 

And ere the morrow's light in splendor broke, 
Brave heroes' blood stained all the trampled clods. 

And victory crowned with all her honors those 
Whom death found not amid the battle's din, 

Or journeying on to conflict, when his blows 
Fell, with more subtle cruelty, within. 

But now the line moves ceaseless ever on, 

Yet shorter grows with each new milestone 
past, — 

I seem to see the land of setting sun 

Receiving that dim vanguard fading fast. 

29 



No sound of war's alarm rings down the breeze, 
A silence still more ominous pervades; 

There shall no soldier leave the cypress trees 

That mark the place of death's dark ambuscades. 

No cannon of the enemy's attack, 

Nor answering cannonade shakes all the air; 
No bugle note, loud sounded, echoes back 

In strains that fire the soul to do and dare. 

And yet, methought, one mighty foe drew near 
Whose awful legions filled my soul with dread, 

I looked to see that veteran line in fear 
And all their numbers in confusion spread. 

For 'twas the armies of oblivion 

That onward came in sable colors all. 

The earth beneath them trembled, and the sun 
Seemed hid behind some dark and awful pall. 

But calmly held the line its onward way 

And raised but once aloft some banners torn ; 

Those banners had been carried many a day 

With whose stern tale e'en history's pen was 



The armies of oblivion but cast 

One glance upon those standards lifted high 
And with a shriek that shook upon the blast 

They fled as flees the night from morn's bright 
sky. 

Thus, conquering still, the heroes hold their course, 
Their numbers fewer with the days that fly. 

But, long as rivers journey from their source, 
Ne'er shall the memory of their valor die ! 



30 



THE BOER WOMEN'S DESPAIR 

Oh, God, we cried, the end of all is near; 
Our state has fallen and our hopes are crushed ! 
Days wax and wane the same; Aurora blushed 
As deeply ere the Britton shocked the ear 
Of man as now. No care for freedom's death 
Stirs deep the heart of nations. No alarm 
At savage empire's march e'er stays the arm 
Of that stern tyrant that denies us breath. 
It is as though we had not lived. E'en now 
We live not to the world, but as a name, — 
What is it that our arms won transient fame? 
Defeat soon snatched the laurel from our brow. 

Yet still we battled on, — months dragged along; 
Not always did the foe unscathed pursue 
His bloody journey; though ours w^ere but few. 
Each man was brave and every arm was strong. 
Somewhat our hopes revived ; perchance the world, 
That cares so little, to so soon forget. 
Might feel, for constant coldness, some regret 
That odds so great at struggling right were hurled. 
Alas for hope ! The Powers that, o'er and o'er. 
Have flattered fortune while the w^eak they spurn, — 
As long they have the hated Jews — now turn 
But Levite eyes upon our sufferings sore. 

Our sun sets fast, — not toward the golden shore. 
Where dwell the fair Hesperides, but down 
Toward St. Helena's coast of dread renown, 
Where ocean's waves on rocky sea-cliffs roar. 
There England on sublimity of mind 
Has wreaked its hatred — on its grandeur first 
When there Napoleon pined, now, — this the worst — 
On courage true whose soul they cannot bind ! 



31 



And we — e'en that sad beauty, which appears 
About the sinking orb we may not see; 
The camp stockade, which tells we are not free, 
Shuts out the vision — naught is left but tears! 
Our sun is set. Ah, in that lurid sky. 
That dims to darkness, is no portent seen? 
The land that boasts herself the ocean's queen 
May yet send up to heaven her bitter cry. 

Oh, if it were a dream! hope dies so hard! 
Perchance dark clouds have only hid the sun. 
At least, sad hearts, hope till the day is done. 
For God yet rules, nor men his sway retard! 



THE AWAKENING 

A spring, a leap, — the leaves are out; 

And all along the ground. 
Now here, now there, a blue wave rolls 

And violets are found. 

The water nymphs with sea-green locks, 

Soon as grew warm the air. 
Hid in the mist the sun drew up, 

Arose a myriad fair. 

Now here, now there, o'er earth they flock, 

Where rain and dew descend; 
Their tresses trail o'er hill and vale, 

They joy to earth extend. 

Whate'er they touch, if life be there. 

Fresh verdure dons anew; 
A green and wakened world once more 

Enhances heaven's blue. 



32 



THE PRESIDENT AT COURT SQUARE 

The spell of coming greatness fills the air, 
Though naught seems changed, save when the wan- 
dering gaze 
A moment rests on some gay-decked design 
Whence shine the nation's colors chiefly forth. 
The time but slowly drags. Too swift the thought 
Outruns it to be patient of its course, 
And yet it passes. Now, upon the square. 
The gathering knots of people emphasize 
The clock's slow warning of the approaching hour. 
At last the square's wide space almost is filled. 
The time draws on apace; yet, even now. 
In vain the wind seeks, as it long has sought, 
For moment wholly psychological. 
But still it waits for his arrival, then 
It shall be felt and fully realized ! 

Remains a little space of waiting tense. 
The band arrives and to the impatient throng 
Discourses music. Soon the tramp of feet 
Is heard oncoming, and about the stand. 
Whither all eyes are drawn, a line of troops 
Swift circles, double-ranked. Sharp orders ring, 
The ranks divide and form an avenue; 
Stands each blue form, expectant but at ease. 

Now sounds a shout heard distantly; it swells. 
It grows, it comes, and there above the heads 
Of eager thousands is the first swift glimpse 
Of him whom all delight to honor. On, 
Before him, comes a mounted force, scarce seen, 
Unheeded save to swell his praise. The shout 
Breaks now from all around for up the path. 
Between the lines of proud saluting troops. 
He comes! A gracious form, and dignity 

33 



Sits well upon its manliness. A smile 

Of real appreciation, not induced — 

No feigned approval comes from one like him — 

Is on his face ; how faint is thine own cry 

To that with which thou fain would'st honor him ! 

With springy step he mounts the stair and stands 

Withdrawn a little 'neath the o'ershadowing flags, 

Until at last the mayor's outstretched hand, 

A moment vainly raised against the glad 

Spontaneous voice of all the multitude. 

Has brought a silence, that for three great cheers 

He now may call for the great nation's chief. 

They ring to heaven. The president stands forth. 

Alas that it should come! but e'er it comes. 
In all life's scenes, be they but small and mean, 
Or great of promise, when thy very soul 
Demands fulfilment, — ah, that then should come 
Reaction ! Gazing steadfastly on him 
As now he speaks, there dawns, now first, a sense 
That in this hour, whither thy thoughts long time 
Have turned as to a goal where thou should'st find 
The something that fore'er escapes thee, till 
Almost thy heart despairs that it exists, — 
E'en in this hour, when for a fleeting space 
The nation's eyes are on this thronged spot. 
While here the nation's head abides; it still 
Eludes thy baffled grasp. 'Tis passing strange 
That he who has embodied to thy mind. 
In his own self, the grandeur of the state; 
Who has succeeded in his destined time 
To that high place where likewise, in their day, 
The giants of the nations sat who now 
Are history, — that he, before thy eyes. 
Almost as any other should appear ; 
Subject with all the crowd to accident. 
To petty inconvenience, travel-stained, 
34 



And by his voice unable now to reach 
The half of these that press so dense around. 
It is a thought that unto thee must bring 
A certain sadness and distrust of fate. 

But stay! These be philistine sentiments! 
Thy saner thought shall soon recall thy mind 
From such vague wanderings. This is indeed 
Historic time; no time nor place is mean 
In which men pledged to nobleness of aim 
Are gathered! Art thou then a man, and still 
Hast thou not learned that through all circum- 
stance, 
Through all annoyances and stings that fall, 
The soul of man forges forever on 
To its high destiny, innately grand. 
And noble in its essence? And 'tis shame 
That, gazing on this man whom all and each 
May proudly hail as chief, as there he stands, 
A goodly figure and indeed the one 
Who rules the nation; thoughts of childish scope 
A moment should appeal to thee. And yet, 
Perchance it is his personality, 

The power that speaks within his words, speaks too 
From all his bearing, that has won thee back 
To saner, higher things; for now he stirs 
All these his hearers with the subtle force — 
By studied oratory aided naught — 
Of a sincere puissant soul. Nor yet 
Shalt thou at any time forget that here. 
Before thee also, stands the dignity 
Of all America ; and there shall come. 
Despite thy somewhat too material thought, 
An aura of authority to shroud 
A too impertinent scrutiny of him 
On whom a mighty nation gladly leans. 



35 



His words are done. Again we voice a shout, 
And, as he now departs, again we hail 
The President: but more we hail the man! 



BRAVE GREECE 

Ye powers of earth, ye mighty men, — 

And well of earth ye be 
Who would to slavery again 

Sell that land of the free ! — 

Array your armaments for war. 

Ye who have learned of her, 
Through whom you know^ what true souls are, 

Through her, the great, the pure ! 

Clash loud your swords, your arms gird on. 

And loud your bugles peal. 
The sun that shone on Marathon 

May it not work your weal ! 

May it not lend one gleam of light 

To strike your swords on fire, 
But may Almighty God the just 

Smite on you w^ith his ire! 

Bring on your legions, O ye strong! 

'Gainst her, — ^ye proud, ye great! — 
Greece, gather now your vailant force 

And leave the rest to fate! 

Hellas, be firm, for win you must 

You do not stand alone. 
The souls of all the brave and just 

Make haste your cause to own. 

36 



The souls of all the mighty dead 
Cheer you from out the sky ! 

England, beware! can Nelson lead 
Where there Is Infamy? 

The souls of all your great that were 
They will not guide you on, 

And 'mong the host of men you send 
Seek not a soul In one! 

France, heed you well ! Italy, pause ! 

Turn back while yet you may, 
Shame and disgrace will follow soon 

Upon the break of day. 

Cowards! ye nations of the west. 
Who vaunt your liberty. 

O'er you there broods a loathsome pest- 
It Is foul slavery. 

Bound are ye with a golden chain 
Who loud your swords do boast, 

Eternal shame waits on your name 
If you touch Hellas' coast! 

As Athens once stood all alone 
In Greece, and won the day. 

So Greece, alone In all the world, 
Will conquer In this fray. 



37 



INVULNERABILITY 

A strange succession is our life 

Of varied moods, diverse desires; 
An endless internecine strife 

Feeding on unrelenting fires. 
What gifts, what energies, what needs; 

What friends, what lovers, what ideals; 
What gods austere, what sacred creeds; 

Can firm withstand, as onward steals 
Unfeeling Time, and, from his hand, 

The glittering tapestr>^ lets fall 
Of new events? — the folds expand 

And smother thought, intentions, all! 

So, once it seemed, — so is it still 

To all who in exteriors walk ; 
And oft, in hearts that highest thrill 

With courage, shall such specters stalk. 
No weapon is there that may stay 

The inroads of insistent mood. 
Yet Stygian waters roll to-day 

Of virtues Thetis understood. 
Not in the bowels of the earth — 

In thine own soul, whose hidden deeps 
Thou little weenest, waits for birth 

The Power that there unheeded sleeps. 



38 



THE PINE 

Securely standing on the topmost hight, 

Lofty with heavenward-pointing and with years, 

A grim and gloomy sentinel of night, 

The pine above the mountain-top appears. 

Man may not know the import, dark and deep. 
Of those wind-wrung confessions that its boughs 
Make to the tempest ; nor when lulled to sleep. 
Can he its secret confidence arouse. 

Winter it scorns and summer fails to cheer 
Its chilly bosom. Still unchanged it stands 

While from below the murmurs it may hear 

Of naked boughs till spring break winter's bands. 

Thus stands within the world some genius cold 
Whom men respect or fear but seldom love, 

Whose life, self-centred, dark though stern con- 
troled 
Must like the pine, still point men's souls above. 



THE EQUINOCTIAL 

Through the long night it came, 
And, beating o'er my head, the fitful showers, 

While they ne'er waked from sleep. 
Yet stole in dream sounds through my sleeping hours. 

And to the pelting rain 
My rousing thoughts first woke my hearing's sense; 

To my first glance without 
All things seemed lost in one rain-ribbed immense. 



39 



Yet had the lowering skies 
Vials more mighty to outpour on earth 

Than earlier clouds had spilled. 
The storm-winds laughed above in boisterous mirth. 

And now the heavens break loose — 
Or did the ocean surge 'twixt earth and sky 

And trail its watery robes 
Across the melting land, so lately dry? 

Things near at hand grow dim. 
The distance fades and all dissolves in rain ; 

The sky itself descends 
And almost meets the earth it should disdain. 

So swift it comes that now, 
From the soaked ground, the drops rebound again; 

Nor can one longer say 
If clouds down-pour or earth rain-battles them! 

ORPHEUS'S MUSIC IN HADES 

The strains of the harp died away on the air, 
But the spirit of music was hovering there; 
The voice of the singer had hushed and was still, 
But there died not away that ineffable thrill. 

Still the myriad caverns of Hades did surge 
With the quavering notes of that infinite dirge, 
And the new-coming shades all but laid hold on 

earth 
With the power of that song to rewake them to 

birth. 

The Furies, who never had tasted before 
The sweetness of pity that flows the heart o'er, 



40 



Felt a sweep of its wave melt the stone of their 

breast, 
And over their eyelids the hot tear-drops pressed. 

But before the fierce guards, their charges had 

heard — 
Like the sound of a voice, like the song of a bird, 
To a man whom long years a deep dungeon has 

held— 
The sound of that music as o'er them it swelled. 

There Tantalus stood, while the waters rushed past, 
While sweet odors of fruit were unheeded at last. 
For he raised not his hand nor lowered his head, 
But music was feeding his senses Instead. 

And the torturing wheel, as it passed o'er the 

ground, 
Felt the rapturous spell of that heavenly sound ; 
And Ixion knew not its roll nor Its cease. 
For that voice was divine, and the music release. 

THE COLD MOON'S SERVICE 

Silent and cold it floats In the blue upper sea, 

A grand yet awful witness to the power of death. 
Sailors have feared, and some yet fear, whom 
phantasy 
Sends ofttimes cowering through the dark with 
bated breath. 
Lest at an inauspicious time they should behold — 
Dread spectacle — a phantom ship steer past on 
high. 
Which, manned by corpses, sails the air from time 
of old. 
Yet these from infancy have viewed the moon- 
lit sky, 

41 



Nor shuddered ever at the sight of that dead sphere 
Which, with no living freightage, sails the air 
above, 

Itself devoid alike of warmth and atmosphere, 
Unblest by any light of life and dead to love. 

And yet, perchance, when those soft silvery beams 
descend 
With beauty, o'er the earth to speed the lover's 
hour. 
There may to that cold world where love has had 
an end. 
Some joy return that still it has the subtle power 
To seize that sunlight which it may no longer use 
To warm its own cold heart, and send it quickly 
down. 
That gladness into earth's young hearts it may in- 
fuse. 
Thus striving, though long dead, to live in love's 
renown. 



THE OLD AND THE NEW 

Noiseless the midnight gates are swinging wide. 
The bright new year springs forward as they ope, 
Vainly an old man's trembling fingers grope 

To find resistance to the forms that glide 

And bear him on, resistless as the tide. 

A last farewell as shadows round him close! 
He shall return no more; the countless throng 
Of years gone by are beckoning him along 
To realms unknown where dark and silent flows 
Oblivion's stream that no relenting knows. 



42 



His deeds are of the past — the good, the ill, 

Unalterable to remotest time; 

And, though forgotten as the centuries climb, 
Their influence shall live and linger still 
While future years their destiny fulfil. 

But now a form upon the threshold stands, 
Of radiant aspect and of youthful grace ; 
A smile of joyous hope is on his face, 
He greets the world with wide-extended hands, 
And unto all the earth his heart expands. 

He knows not yet of strife and bitter hate; 

Of anguish and of disappointment sad ; 

Nor wolfish sin in lamblike garment clad; 
Nor broken hopes that only sit and wait 
For that which will not come, or come too late. 

He recks not of the doubts and selfish fears 
That hold the w^orld in bondage to its woes ; 
Nor aught of infamous oppression knows 
That, through the long procession of the years, 
Has filled the earth with bitterness and tears. 

He comes with joy mid welcome-pealing bells, 
Flushed with exalted hope, while faith sincere 
Shines from his eyes where oft the gleams appear 

Of cloudless mirth that deep within them dwells. 

And of unburdened recollection tells. 

His laugh rings clear upon the quivering air 

That feels his spell and answers through the night. 
Scarce needs the world the sun's returning light, 
Because of that bright countenance and fair. 
Shedding its beams of gladness everywhere. 



43 



And must he too the weary lesson learn, 

That all the years have known, of human wrong — 
Heir to a weight of sorrow passed along 
From year to year? When shall the floodtide turn 
Toward that high good for which the ages yearn? 

Nay, even now^ it sets to that far shore, 

And nearer draws the altruistic day; 

Old wrongs and ancient doubts must pass away 
And greed its cherished scepter yet give o'er, 
While right shall triumph ever more and more. 

Not always shall the weary year grow old 
With bitterness beneath its burdens hard, 
Nor shall the crimes of men fore'er retard 
The age of peace, by prophets long foretold, 
The golden age, unruled by greed of gold. 

Hail, then, oh year of promise bright, all hail! 

Thy smile may speak of something more than 
hope. 

Perchance some brighter visions on thee ope 
Than we have dared to dream. May thou prevail 
O'er all the foes that shall thy right assail! 

THE MYSTERY OF LIFE 

The strange, strange mystery of life! 

The yearnings of the soul ! 
Nor rest, nor toil, nor peace, nor strife. 

But for a space console. 

We glean the surface of a joy, 
We quafiE some o'erbrimmed bliss; 

We come not there where fades alloy 
Nor where the glory is. 

44 



We taste the bitter scum of pain 
(No soul the depths has quaffed) ; 

The winds but chill and sting in vain 
That should toward Heaven waft. 

A thousand varied sloping hills 

Their varied valleys lead; 
We come not where the longing stills, 

Nor find the elysian mead. 

There dies a radiance for aye 

From all our spoken thought; 
We breathe not what our hearts would say, 

Our griefs, expressed, are naught. 

But somewhere, in the lap of Time, 

We dream God holds in store 
The music no resplendent clime 

E'er heard on earthly shore. 

Somewhere we dream there is a balm, 

For all the woes of earth; 
And some day shall divinest calm 

Within the soul have birth. 

Do we but dream ? We dare not think 

Such visions can betray; 
Else would our souls in darkness sink, 

Nor ever find the day. 



45 



SPRING'S FINISHED WORK 

Now broods o'er earth the warmth of fostering 

spring, 
And it has mellowed into summer heat 
While she matures apace. The silvery ring 
Which sounded in her voice to murmuring 
Has changed. To droning hum of bees, to bleat. 
To lazy lowing, to the subtle voice 
Of all the myriad people of the air 
Has she resigned the incessant busy noise 
Of preparation infinite, and swift 
To glide as it is slow to spring. Up there 
Where droop the leaves above their nest, birds poise; 
And in the hollow stump, dim through the rift, 
Is moving life where was inanimate. 
Green is the world with fresh awakening; 
The woods with foliage dense, stately and great, 
Are yet the more unlimited by man, 
Who bounds them but to find their boundless plan — 
For his alone is to appreciate. 
All these display the finished work of spring; 
And life is rampant now upon the earth ; 
And there is all around, below, above. 
Life, leaving future life a living love. 
And nowhere seems there death, but only birth. 



46 



THE BLUE VIOLET 

Low-bending on its slender stem it stands 
And, with its sisters, makes of that gray knoll 
A spot more lovely than the mind might dream, 
Fair with a beauty that is of the soul. 

Many a bloom more haughty greets the light, 
But 'tis for this sweet flower to win the sky, 
A mighty wooer that, with ardor warm. 
Glows from his lofty palaces on high. 

As some young lover, fired by strong desire. 
Awakes an answer on the maiden's cheek 
Though she, with sweet refusal not less firm 
For sweetness, yields not all that he would seek ; 

Thus does the violet assume a hue 
Of love-response diviner than the sky's. 
Yet still, w^ithin, her heart is white nor comes 
The blush beyond the prudence of her eyes. 

VISITATION 

Wafting a long-hushed melody of pain. 
The evening breeze steals o'er the brooding sea, 
Whose distant shore he ever seeeks in vain 
That still across the waters calls to thee. 
Oh, is it from afar those strains are borne? 
Or are the vague, cold mists but thinly spread 
Between this land of loneliness forlorn 
And those blest regions where thy soul is fled ? 
Are these but echoes of thine altered voice? 
Or does thy soul, whose sweetness, all complete, 
Unchanged must be mid Heaven's divinest joys. 
Glide o'er the waves in music sad and sweet? 
It can be but thy voice, for thou wouldst stay, 
Nor snatch so soon the ecstasy away! 

47 



NEW ENGLAND 

Now, over all the land has winter spread 
His chilly mantle; hilltop, vale and plain. 
Ravines far hidden and the streets of towns, — 
All are enfolded. Days, indeed, have passed 
Nor longer in unspotted whiteness gleam 
The roadside vistas. Many a trace appears 
Along the village highways, of the quiet 
Yet busy traffic such as hamlets know 
In staid New England. 

Who feels not at times. 
Who loves her old traditions, that a joy 
Is hoarded up within these sterner airs, 
Inherent likewise to her faith? These hills 
Bow not to plausibilities. These vales 
Seek not for pampering creeds. Where science leads 
She follows, rashly never, but discreet; 
From concepts new the chaff still winnowing, 
Nor ever trusting that some latent law. 
Loud-heralded in strange discovery, 
Shall open to her feet some other path 
Than virtue's. Dogmas change ; ideas expand, 
And broader are her views than yesterday ; — 
Still stand unchanged her old integrity — 
The simple grandeur of her faith in God! 



48 



SINISTRA 

A sighing wind soughs mournful through the glade, 
A leaden sky weighs down the hopeless hills, 
No melody of light the brooklet thrills 
To rippling song, but, plunged in dreary shade, 
Mirthless its murmuring notes in distance fade. 

A jay screams harshly from a lonely pine, 
A shudder sweeps along the naked trees, 
A spirit through the deepening shadow flees, — 
Almost its strange vague form my eyes define, 
But fear has gripped the forest's heart and mine. 

The silence of a soul the brooklet stills, 
The jay has fled, the fearful stillness grows. 
Cold in my veins the freezing life-blood flows. 
The deepening darkness shuts me from the hills, 
Yet some huge shape of dread the foreground fills. 

Oh, Mysterj^ of Darkness, this thy hour 

Has come at last, — forms dazzled once, but now 

Naught hides thee — hideous, near — yet baffled, thou ; 

I, too, have altered with the withering flower, 

I, too, have felt thy wrath, but scorn thy power! 



49 



LINES WRITTEN ON THE DEATH OF 
REV. JAMES TUFTS 

So thou art gone ! thou the beloved friend ; 

The minister to others' joys and woes 

These many years ; the teacher far endeared 

Throughout the land to many whom thy doors 

Have seen depart to bear throughout their life, 

At home, abroad, the memory of thy ways 

And walk more nobly for thy guidance true. 

The teacher — and while our eyes grow dim, 

Thou goest forth to learn the lesson dark 

Of which, through the long centuries, no mind 

Of master genius showeth aught of worth 

And on whose gloomy page no light but one 

Is cast. But Him who sheddeth this bright beam, 

As thou hast loved, so through thy lengthened life 

I know thou e'er hast followed and I feel 

That to the tomb He led thee, fearing not 

But looking toward Him with unfaltering trust, 

When the last sands of that dear life fell swift, 

Methinks Death, as he came to thee brought not 

That iron harsh with which he hews men down 

Whose lives seem not well rounded, but he seized 

The golden scythe whose not unfriendly stroke 

Severs the thread of him whose years are ripe 

And whose long toil draws to its peaceful close. 

Nature herself was conscious of thy end. 

That day when to her breast she should enfold 

Thy form in its last resting place, she sobbed 

At early morning tears of heartfelt grief. 

But soon, controlling these, she smoothed her brow 

And, as they bore thee forth, her fairest smile 

Welcomed the precious clay, — all that was left 

Of thee who wast so loved, so great a son. 

The stars that shone that night o'er thy new grave 

Are not more constant in their changeless course 

50 



Than thou wast in uprightness. Spring called not 
From all the earth a more perennial bloom 
Than, in a sordid world, those virtues have 
That crowned so well thy venerable brow. 

As, while thou liv'dst, thou never fail'dst to teach 

Some truth to those who gladly learned of thee, 

Thus still let the long lesson of thy life 

Show us some nobler way than we might seek; 

As oft, in our perplexities thou hadst 

A smile to cheer us as we looked to thee. 

Thus through the lengthening years still let the 

beams 
Of thy pure light illume our paths, great soul ! 

DREAM LIFE 

The dawn pours over the eastern slope — 
Voice of bird and whisper of hope! — 
I'll fill me a cup of the sun-kissed dew, 
O love of my life, and I'll drink to you. 

Yesternight, in the western sky, 
Day was sinking and you and I, 
Fancy-guided and fairy-shod, 
Up the beams of the sunset trod; 

Till, borne by zephyrs, swift and free, 
We drifted over a crimson sea; 
Dashed by the cloud waves, twilight cold, 
Lured by your beauty and overbold; 

Drifted, — drifted, — I scarce recall 

Near what fair country we chanced to fall 

Dreamily down, but sure I thought, 

Since you were with me it mattered naught 



51 



But now morn mounts In the eastern sky, 
And we are back again you and I ; 
Yet I'll fill me a cup of the sun-kissed dew, 
O love of my life, and I'll drink to you! 

THE VENETIAN'S GRIEF 
{On the Fall of the Campanile). 

Oh empty, silent space! 

Oh void the stricken mind still seeks to fill ! 
When beauty fades on some fair woman's face. 

Then hearts with pain must thrill. 

But when, far up the sky, 

A shaft of splendor centuries long hath shone 
With grandeur luring the beholder's eye — 

Ah, through the land a groan, 

A stifled groan is heard ! 

Not fading gradually, but snatched away 
With scarce from pitying heaven a warning word — 

Ah, luckless, evil day! 

The pride of Venice lies 

All shattered on the ground ; the city weeps ; 
The cynosure of twice ten thousand eyes 

Hides in those ruined heaps! 

The Campanile's bells 

Ring out no more the well-known strains on high, 
But from the earth the sound of mourning swells 

That thus their voice should die. 

Proud old St. Mark's looks down 

In sadness on the stones that yesterday 



52 



High o'er Its own, alike in world renown, 
Towered to the clouds away. 

Round the old palace walls. 

Where ruled the doges, broods a spell of pain, 
And from some star a voice of sorrow falls — 

A voice once raised in vain. 

But justly now at last. 

Worldwide, is Galileo's name revered; 
Though fallen is the tower where, centuries past, 

His feeble glass was reared. 

And fallen long ago 

Is that proud state that once ruled all the seas, 
And saw vast wealth through many a channel flow 

To which she held the kej^s. 

And though on high once more 

The Campanile's shaft should proudly loom. 
Oh, ne'er again shall Venice's long-lost power 

Rise from the tomb! 

THE KING 

When over hills by sternest winter sheathed 

In icy armor, taking warily 

A perilous way, he journeys forth who oft 

In summer hours their friendly slopes has climbed 

With joy, — for him their harsher aspects have 

Suggestions sweet, not oft akin to pain. 

What iron hour of suffering e'er came 

To hapless man but, in relentless grasp. 

Was yet the more constrained to offer him 

Nepenthe? Heaven is sure! Each glorious ray 

That rifts the clouds apart apprises man 

Of his ameliorations manifold. 



53 



June days for dreams are fair — who dares to dream 

In bleak December? Him shall visions stir, 

Ineffable; whose shadows, vast and strange, 

The season's dreariness shall overpass. 

Shall overleap the years; and summer time 

Is not more sure than is the servitude 

These daring dreams on lesser men's shall lay. 

And thou, too long in Augusts lingering — 
Thou, too, arise, come forth and greet the year 
Where'er it summons. From these ice-clad hills 
The sun strikes mightier beacons. Vaults the soul 
To loftier skies than always overhang 
Green bowers. Thou, too, perchance, at last shall 

feel, 
Within thy heart, the old, immortal fire 
That from Parnassus gleams; from Sinai, hurled, 
Wakes thunders still around the listening earth. 
Sublimer days it speaks, diviner worlds. 
Nor will it be confined in channels old. 
But melts all things and brings the better age. 

While now the wind is hushed and stretch the fields 

Coldly away to silent groves, whose shades 

Invite not, yet appeal ; while lie the hills 

Expectant all around ; while near thy feet 

The yellow, long, sad grasses vaguely stir. 

As almost to beseech some aid of thine ; 

And, far above, the unriddled sky looks down — 

Silent; — what is it in the heart that throbs? 

Ah ! this is pain ! Is it that here awaits 

The sorrowing court that long their monarch seek; 

And here at last he stands, and has forgot 

The sign that should their homage glad invoke? 

This is the sadness — not to be disowned. 

But that they wait, and he unworthy is! 



54 



They shall not always grieve, nor always he 
To his great trust be lacking. Days shall pass, 
And years, and centuries; ages, perchance; 
Nor shall he rue them all, that day he comes 
Into his kingdom. Something lacks the pen — 
Something? — nay, all! no monarch ever wore 
The aspect he upon that day shall wear — 
Conqueror, **more than conqueror," and more 
Than king, and more than priest, than lover more — 
As earth beholds him — far outshining saint 
And prophet and all forms the sum of such, — 
What time, at last, the utter victor-lord 
Over himself, he shall his right have won 
To rule all things, all angels, and all heavens! 

CENTUM ANNI 

[Written for the Centennial Celebration at Monson 
Academy, Monson, Massachusetts, June, 1904.] 

A voice persuasive with the year's best notes, 

Tender with memories of a living past, 

Sweet with dear love, and vibrant with all faith, — 

A voice oft heard, rings o'er familiar hills 

With welcome. Not presumptuous, but thrilled 

With that high greeting, wakes within my heart 

Desire unquenchable to tune a lay 

Harmonious; that some low minor strains 

I may upgather and report to those — 

If such there be — of hearing not attuned 

Unto the accents of the mightier voice. 

Upon the golden threshold, pausing now, 
Stands Time, reluctant in his ceaseless course. 
Numbering with joy a hundred shining years; 
And trembles in his hand the immortal urn; 
Till almost he seems ready to outpour, 

55 



Into the chalice of a single day, 

More than its complement of hours. So full 

Is this glad time. Full likewise are the hearts 

Of those that gather in the happy vale 

Where, on her modest, venerable hill, 

Sits the fair mother of our first ideals. 

Her voice it is I hear, — the hour is hers. 

Youth sit upon thee for a thousand years! 
No marks of age are on thy radiant brow. 
"Whom the gods love," live, — through the ages 

young. 
Athena loved thee well. When through the heavens 
She moves, not Jove himself may dare to stay 
Her steps; glad, rather, to resign to her 
His lightnings. Rest, dear parent, then assured; 
She loves thee whom the Olympian gods still fear. 

The mind has treasures never violate. 

Poseidon's walls are low. Great Babylon, 

And all the cities rich in spoils, that stood 

By ocean's wave or ruled the mighty streams 

That swell his waters, — Troy's sad fate have 

known. 
Nor might of navies nor the sword's strong boast 
Shall be the stay of nations. List where, now, 
Asia's dark triple night — the night of age. 
Of immorality, and now the night 
Of war — far round the peopled globe lifts still 
Its groans and cries. I count not those fair isles 
Whose doughty sons, unfettered by the past 
Shamed not to learn new lessons of the west 
Nor missed — a few — the blessings of her walls 
Whom now we honor, — never can I place 
"The Flowery Kingdom" mid the list of those 
Decaying nations of the Orient. 

56 



A bright, new star is she ! Yet not her arms, — 

Her genius, rather, and integrity 

The rare beams shed. Her coasts, though round 
them flock 

Her conquering fleets, are not invulnerable ; 

Fate holds them, still, within her fickle hand. 
But round our honored mother, thronging now, 

Are all her children, gathered from afar ; 

Dear are these seats where, 'neath o'ershadowing 
trees, 

She sits serene; but in their deepest hearts 

And in their minds is her best seat, — safe there. 
Raise then the praises of the Intellect! 

Too oft, within our hearts, we slander her 

And style her cold. This hour we speak her true. 

Within her flames, religion still, and love. 

And all the virtues, are revivified. 

What though, around her fanes, false priests have 
stood ? 

Are other shrines not shamed? Hers least, per- 
chance. 

Above the clouds she lifts her battlements 

And seeks instinctively heaven's purest air. 

Dear alma mater, near her throne art thou. 

Meet were it, here, to sing thy history, 
Were I but worthy of the task. The state. 
The church, the nation, to their highest seats 
Have seen thy sons aspire. Far distant lands 
Thy fame have heard and to thy guiding hand 
Right worthy children of their blood assigned. 
Thy influence who shall tell ? It reaches out. 
As in the past, afar; not hemmed among 
These pleasant hills; — strange mountains over seas 
Have breathed the freedom of thy atmosphere 
And love thy name. 

57 



A humble muse it Is 
That pipes these strains, abashed to sing to ye 
Within the shadow of those halls where oft 
Great Virgil's lines resound, and his whom once 
Seven mighty cities claimed, — humble, indeed, 
Yet not untutored of her lowliness 
Nor deaf to voices greater than her own, 

With hers whom here we praise, commingled now, 
The tones revered I seem to recognize 
Of that dear voice that, late, within these vales, 
Ceased mid our tears. No other may receive 
The reverence that had this hour been his 
The stream of whose long, venerable years 
Almost, with hers, had spanned a century. 
Hear, then, these few, last, faltering lines that strive 
To catch the import of the inspiring words 
W^hich, falling from their lips, methinks I hear: 

Ye children of a larger thought than moves 
Material aims, deserve your heritage. 
Great deeds laborious hands now occupy. 
By land and sea, for commerce ; grander still 
Hath science dreamed and wrought and waits to do. 
Art lingers for a space, with slower step 
Proceeding over higher ground. Doubt not 
For this her final victories. Behold 
Her lineaments, unto whose mighty hand 
And strong, free heart the future is consigned! 
Look not afar; Greece long in dust hath lain. 
Though beautiful, and in her ashes great. 
The Rome of Horace and of Caesar lives 
But in the memory. To England came 
Long since the floodtide of her destiny. 
America! above the eastern hills 
It is thy star that gleams. While empires cease. 
For thy proud brow the daughters of the morn 
The gems unto a crown are fashioning, 

58 



As never Europe saw. Oh wonderful 

And fair among the nations of the earth! 

Who shall thy borders fix? Fixed though are 

theirs — 
The stars in heaven — not thine. But ye, her sons, 
While earth upon herself draws daily in 
Her outer boundaries, proclaiming loud 
Of space the conquest, — seek ye other fields 
Than dwindling territories. Art is yours — 
A humanized, diviner art to win 
Unto her banners. Do ye hesitate? 
Parnassus shall no more — a lonely mount — 
Forbid, like Sinai once, the multitude. 
Like that Arabian tent it shall expand 
And fill the earth. All, all! from bondage freed, 
Upon its slopes shall breathe Olympian airs. 
Delays the time? Ye, then, may hasten it. 

Such voices, fainly told ye, have I heard. 
Let him be inspiration unto us 
Who made the peaceful Concord to outsing 
Great torrents. Europe boasts no grander name. 
Ideals divine he sung and called the land 
To mightier trust. A glorious priveledge, 
A duty stern is ours. 

And thou who trained 
Our young ideals to rise, beholding now 
A rounded century upon the trail 
Of' shining years behind thee, mold us, still, 
With thy ennobling influence. With thee 
Are all our hearts. Within them, now, there lives 
No fairer image than thine own. Live on ! 
Bright, through the coming years, w^e read thy name. 



59 



THE VOICE OF FATE 

Around my dwelling fiercely roars 
The rising wind, the stinging cold 
Rides on its shoulders o'er the moors, 
With its own bitter will to mold 
The boisterous spirit of the blast 
To kindred fury. Woe to those 
Who on the mountains or the vast 
Inhospitable plain shall lose 
This night their perilous way! Ah me, 
How frail Is man! how vain his boast 
Of lordly power! By hand or sea, 
I seem to see the bubbles tossed 
Of his designs, till, broken quite 
The last of all their fair array, 
Himself drifts out Into the night — 
The fragile creature of a day. 

Hark, hark the sound, the solemn sound 
Reverberating o'er the hills ! 
All other voice but this Is drowned — 
This, only this, the spirit fills. 
It is the awful Iron string 
That runs the infinite spaces through. 
That, through all worlds, the knell doth ring 
Of privacies, of Me, of You ; 
Of pretty interests, of creeds; 
Of fickle friendships, and of states; 
Of things that seem our direst needs, 
Of loves, of sympathies, of hates. 

My neighbor, o'er the snow-piled street, 
Hears but the wind and turns to sleep; 
I hear that awful chord repeat 
The sound that, hearing, I could weep. 

60 



This is the tone that all dissolves, 
This is the awesome harmony 
That melts the rocks, that e'er revolves 
The constant spheres, that rolls the sea. 
The voice, the iron voice, of Fate ! 
How hath the blast brought home to me 
That changeless voice that, soon or late, 
Will lure all barks to deepest sea ! 
For joys may come and joys may go, 
We may not hasten or retard 
Of that dread tide the ebb or flow 
That bounds our little islands hard. 

But, answering low within the soul. 
Yet confident beyond all fear, 
A whisper of sublime control 
The doubting heart may ever hear: 
What boots it, then, compelling Fate 
If it thy spirit may not tame? 
What though ten myriad worlds await 
Its nod, if thou abide the same? 
For puny weakness dost repine 
When thou considerest the spheres? 
What if a little word of thine 
Shall not be broken by the years? 
What if thy strength of purpose scorns 
A universe of fiends to shake, 
And love of Truth thy soul adorns 
That will no truce with falsehood make? 
Ah, then, dear heart, with courage high 
March on ; thy faith is not in vain ! 
If thou be true, the proudest sky 
Shall rend, like clouds, for thee in twain. 
And thou shalt know that inner light 
That can dispense with moon and sun; 
Nor heeds the darkness. In its might 
Foreseeing deeds 'e'er they be done. 
6i 



And there is One who rules alway, 
Sits He behind, or sits He in, 
This direful Fate, and, come what may, 
With Him, at last, we all shall win. 

THE FOREST SPIRIT 

I sing of the glory of forests. 
The joy and the calm of the wood; 
Where breathes a whisper of meaning 
To those who have understood. 

They clothe the bleakness of hillsides. 
They cheer the course of the streams. 
They shelter the nymphs of the waters 
From the glance of the fierce sunbeams. 

There comes no sound like the tumult 
That cities hurl to the sky 
From the depths of their quiet regions. 
Where the cooling shadows lie. 

Their voice is the voice of stillness, 

A musical whispered tone, — 

Save when the Lord, in his tempest. 

Sweeps down through their boughs that moan. 

And tremble before his coming. 
And bend them before his power, — 
But he passes over and spares them 
Until his appointed hour. 

The aisles of the noble forest 
Are strewn with the sun-laced shades; 
They lead to the hidden beauties 
Of the secret woodland glades, 

62 



The fairy dells and the coverts 
Where Nature loves to hide 
The rarest charms of her bosom, 
Where silvery brooklets glide, 

Where moss-covered rocks gleam richly 
From the midst of the winding stream, 
And the leaves that dip in the waters 
Like elfish mariners seem. 

And, far through the woodland vistas, 
There comes, like a whisper of dawn. 
The voice of the wondrous spirit. 
That lingers a space, and is gone. 

But ne'er from the soul that has listened. 
In the depths of the forest shade, 
To the strange, sweet calm of those accents 
Shall the spell of that presence fade. 



63 



AUTUMN 

Let others sing the melancholy spell 
Of autumn days, the sadness of her hills; 
Her halcyon splendors I have loved too well 
To read therein a tale of human ills. 

For me, she weaves no gloom-empurpled haze; 
No grief-wrung tears are mingled with the wine 
She sprinkles lavishly beneath the rays 
Of lingering suns, that melt 'mid hues divine. 

Nor is it Nature's poverty, if one 
Find, even in the winter, bleakness mere; 
'Tis some soul-blemish with distaste to shun 
The sterner face of God's e'er blessed year. 

But now is dreamy autumn come again. 
And rainbow-tinted colors, spilled along 
The hillsides and the meadows, not in vain 
Console the hearts that miss the blue-birds song. 

The subtle scent of ripened vintage wafts 

O'er all the hills; and o'er the thick-strewn floor 

Of forests as I pass, the tempered shafts 

Of sunlight through the golden branches pour. 

I deem that ever>' spot is holy ground 
To him who treads it with a purpose high. 
May now full many a "burning bush" be found, 
And many a tree that flames against the sky. 

And all are tinged with fire whose still cold flames 

Burn brighter daily till the leaves consume. 

So be it ever with our human aims, 

To grow more heavenly fair as nears the tomb. 

64 



THE LESSON 

I would not ask fantastic prayers 
Of mighty heaven, nor rend, 
With poor complaints, the gracious airs 
That only good extend. 

I would not wish some gift bizarre 
On me to be bestowed, 
But keep the rugged laws and fair 
That unto us are showed. 

Some miracle I do not crave 

To wrest desires for me, 

Nor trust the wnnd will part the wave 

Of that laborious sea 

That still shall roll athwart the way 
Of those who freedom seek, 
For they must struggle, many a day, 
With surges stern and bleak. 

And while they wrestle with the storm,— 
Not when the day is done. 
And laurels brought and plaudits warm- 
Then was the battle won! 

Teach us, oh Spirit of all Truth, 
The lesson grand and hard: 
Struggle it is exalts our youth, 
'Tis pleasures that retard. 



6.5 



BY FIRELIGHT 

Leaping, dancing, soul-entrancing, 
Fancy's dreaminess enhancing. 
Serpent-like its flames entwining, 
In a maiden's eyes soft-shining, 
Emblem of my heart's desire — 
Burns the fire. 

Upward blazing, high hopes raising, 

To my eyes in wonder gazing, 

Each bright tongue in radiance sporting. 

All her sweet attention courting, 

Toward her bends its changing form. 

In its adoration warm ; 

As in love that ne'er can tire 

Glows the fire. 

And the flames their spell are casting — 
Would their potency were lasting! — 
For to me whose heart is yearning. 
And whose love is warmly burning. 
Paradise seems somewhat nearer 
And the future seems the clearer ; 
Bidding outside thoughts retire 
Shines the fire. 

Then a question from my lips 
In a whisper softly slips 
And an answer, murmured low. 
Fills my heart to overflow. 

Slowly, peacefully away 
While the midnight ends the day, 
As with a fulfilled desire, 
Dies the fire. 



66 



LofC. 



THE RIVERS 

Through fertile fields that spread a wide expanse 

Of maize and verdant grassland to the sun, 

And with unceasing cheerfulness return 

The oftimes sombre glances of the hills, — 

Down from the north with long and sinuous sweep, 

Passes the mighty river. Arching high, 

Still unattainable, alluring still; 

Upward and outward soaring from the eye 

That seeks its boundaries; with many a cloud 

Of fleecy texture hung; inscrutable; 

Smiles the deep heaven. Beneath, the unhastening 

stream 
Breathes to the brooding banks of mystery. 
Placid and slow its broad, majestic flood 
Rolls onward, asking naught of time. The winds 
Born in all skies attend upon its course 
And stir its waters, but it heeds them not. 

Now calm, save for a wandering zephyr, holds 
O'er earth its sweet dominion. All the corn 
Standing in long platoons that here and there 
Draw to the banks, feels but a ripple pass ; 
The breeze scarce stirs with languid furtive breath 
Its myriad leaf-blades drooping gracefully 
O'er the rich sod. More easily the sun 
Strikes from their shining surfaces the gleam. 
Upon the well-wrought span of steel I stand 
Between the liquid deeps. Beneath me slips 
The darker element away and brings 
New waters down forever, — still they slide 
Into the well-worn channels and are lost, 
While glides the stream monotonously on. 
Above, the strange blue upper sea recedes 
Before my glance and baffles every sense. 

67 



Oh magic of the liquid elements! 

Beyond this quiet scene, with impulse sure, 

Ye waft my spirit outward to the deep. 

The wide sweet fields have caught the waters tread ; 

Age-anchored hills, ye feel the music too. 

And yield with me your being to the tide. 

A mightier stream there is, not hemmed among 

Material hills nor treading earthly sands. 

Its mystic source has never god revealed. 

Nor 'mid known banks nor over measured tracts 

Its waters flow. Not born of that blue sea 

That soars above nor by the ocean swelled; 

Mysterious, awful, bearing in its lap 

Unnumbered torrents vaster than have heaped 

Around the pyramids remorseless sands. 

Or made, like Amazon, their mouths a sea; — 

On to an unknown destiny it moves. 

And in its wave sink tribes, religions, worlds. 

The flood of Time ! All other sounds recede. 

Fade and are rapt into that solemn roar. 

Unheard to outward sense, that now has burst 

Upon my spirit. All my heart is awed. 

Relentless! what is man before thy wave? 

Oh proud Connecticut, upon whose bank, 

Moved by thy majesty and grand extent, 

I stand, — thou too art but a bubble poised 

A moment on the tide, that straight art gone, — 

Beside the vastness of the march of Time, 

Yet dost thou keep thy calm, sweet majesty; 

As tall along thy banks abides the corn ; 

And in my heart rises a mightier trust. 



68 



IMMORTAL DAYS 

Beneath what skies abide the blessed gods? 
What tasks are theirs? how pass their blameless 

days? 
Ever such questions wake within the heart, 
Speaking of things unprobed by mortal eyes. 
Amid the unfruitful throng of visionless days, 
Come stealing in through gates invisible 
Moments that win from amaranthine fields. 

With awe surcharged by joy have I beheld, 
On some calm, radiant day of happy June, 
The marvelous approach, the stately throng. 
Of argosies that through the azure heavens 
Sailed on majestically to bournes unknown; 
Unhastening, nor prey of wanton winds . 
The deep day slept beneath their noiseless march — 
The strange, fair day smiled in its waking sleep; 
And all the glorious verdure of the fields 
And proud, tall groves a rarer green assumed; 
And earth kept more than earthly holiday. 

Then to my heart I cried, ''It is enough; 
Mine eyes have seen the temple of the Lord ; 
My feet have trod its aisles ; my hands have touched 
Its sacred, angel-woven tapestries!" 
What glories burst from yonder darksome wood ! 
What fairy gloom broods in these grasses kissed 
By all the sky, and by heaven's breezes tossed! 
Clear-lined against the perfect blue above. 
As in a miniature by genius wrought, 
Loom the tall trees; and every little blade 
Of tremulous grass builds round itself a world 
Out of the perfect purity of air. 



69 



Yet — such the miracle heaven loves to work — 

No lowering mists that on some dreary day 

Seem striving in one featureless, poor mass 

Of palpable, thick chaos to dissolve 

The landscape utterly, — such spell might weave 

As here is woven ere the observing eye 

Is 'ware. For through heaven's mighty arch, 

through cloud. 
Through lofty grove, and radiant blooming flower, 
A thread, divine, invisible, hath passed 
And all the infinite variedness of scene 
Melts as it were into a melody 
Of oneness, sacred, indivisible. 
And as in holy awe the soul bows down 
And worships, — instant-born, as with a blare 
Of pure, celestial trumpets, breaks again 
Into a myriad marvels of sweet form 
The world. 

And I have felt a presence steal 
Into my being, that lies brooding o'er 
The beautiful fields, yet is not born of them; 
That dwells upon the mountains, but needs not 
Their lofty outlook; that from star to star — 
Swifter than thought or twinkling of an eye — 
Passes. Nor on his awful immanence 
Break the dread deeps of interstellar space. 
But as a little wave, harmless, serene. 
Plashes unheeded o'er a pleasant strand. 
Oh ! there are lost forever on our ken 
A myriad beauties of the common earth, 
A myriad glories strewn athwart the sky. 
One somber day has never yet been sung. 



70 



But when, in characters ineffable, 

Over the joyous world thy finger writes 

Thy larger favors, Spirit beneficent, 

Worship must fail — worship herself, that pure, 

Chaste, angel's, e'en be dumb; and springing up 

Within the soul's unfathomable depths 

A voice ring clear: 

Thou, too, oh, wondering child, 
Now overmuch in thine own foolish thought 
And whim of individual being sunk. 
Thou, too, nay, only thou — for this fair day 
Is but the celebration of thy soul 
In its innate, though latent, calm and power — 
Art dear unto the heart of Deity. 
Fear not to lose the things thou deemest thine. 
But sink within His will who is the light 
Thine own; then streaming through thy life shall 

flow. 
Unchecked, the tides of universal love. 
Laving thy heart with waves from unguessed shores. 



71 



:EC 22 1904 



